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The Indian to His Love
| The island dreams under the dawn | | And great boughs drop tranquillity; | | The peahens dance on a smooth
lawn, | | A parrot sways upon a tree, | | Raging at his own image in the enamelled sea. | | | | | | Here we will moor
our lonely ship | | And wander ever with woven hands, | | Murmuring softly lip to lip, | | Along the grass, along
the sands, | | Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands: | | | | | | How we alone of mortals are | | Hid under quiet
boughs apart, | | While our love grows an Indian star, | | A meteor of the burning heart, | | One with the tide that
gleams, the wings that gleam and dart, | | The heavy boughs, the burnished dove | | That moans and sighs a
hundred days: | | How when we die our shades will rove, | | When eve has hushed the feathered ways, | | With
vapoury footsole by the water’s drowsy blaze. |
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By PanEris
using Melati.
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